


Fic: Falling From Grace

by white_cross_b



Category: Weiss Kreuz
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-15
Updated: 2010-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:38:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/white_cross_b/pseuds/white_cross_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Learning To Fly"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fic: Falling From Grace

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is for [](http://elflady-2001.livejournal.com/profile)[**elflady_2001**](http://elflady-2001.livejournal.com/) , for her generous contribution to [](http://community.livejournal.com/livelongnmarry/profile)[](http://community.livejournal.com/livelongnmarry/)**livelongnmarry** . I hope it's what you were hoping for!

  
**This is a continuation of sorts of ** [ ** _Learning To Fly_ ** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/95054) **, which MUST be read first.**

If there's one thing Aya knows, it's how to sabotage anything that might actually lead to some kind of relationship -- be it friends, lovers, or anything in between. He doesn't want a relationship -- can't afford to have one -- and will do whatever it takes to keep someone at arm‘s length. This can best be achieved by hostility and, as a last resort, violence. He hasn't always been this way, however. There was a time in his life when he had been like any other normal teenager. He had been shy with the girls and shy with the boys, and it wasn't until he was in high school and realized he had a crush on his male political science teacher that he realized where his preferences lay.

Aya is by no means a virgin. He had sex for the first time at sixteen, in the back seat of a car with a boy from work. Bow ties removed, vests and shirts open, and pants around their ankles, Aya eagerly gave in to the older boy and never questioned his preference again.

Aya dutifully takes care of his bodily needs, though he is hardly what one could call living. He breathes, he eats, he trains and, on the rare occasion, has sex. He's no fool; he knows he has to give his body what it needs in order to be in perfect shape for the only thing on his mind: revenge. He must always stay focused. So when in the shop one day Yohji unwittingly bares a strip of skin and Aya idly wonders what it would be like to run his tongue along the warm skin of Yohji's stomach and Yohji actually catches him looking, his carefully built world comes crashing down. He did NOT just think that. He is angry with himself for his momentary lapse of reason, not only because his thirst does not allow for personal attachments, but because Yohji has come to think that Aya is now his for the taking. A few near-broken fingers can fix that.

Yohji is not to be deterred, however, and begins making Aya's life a living hell. It's obscene the way his pants are so low that you can almost get a glimpse of ... well, never mind. Aya's definitely not looking, nor bristling at the amount of flirting Yohji now does on an hourly basis. Aya hates the act, hates how Yohji pretends, with his expensive clothes, his sunglasses, his lazy smile. He prefers to watch Yohji when Yohji isn't looking, when Aya knows he's watching the real thing, before Yohji slips into his made-up persona once again: flirting, screwing, and drinking. It pisses Aya off, and then he gets pissed off for being pissed off, and he's so angry that he goes out at night looking for escape.

Aya doesn't dance, but he does drink (in moderation), and he does have sex (in moderation). At times anger tends to make him lose his composure, make rash decisions, become vulnerable, and when he sees someone with dark hair and even darker eyes looking at him from the shadows at the back of the bar, someone who looks like the farthest thing from Yohji possible, Aya makes a mistake. They fuck in the back of Aya's Porsche and when Aya feels the teeth on his neck, he knows something is wrong. There are wings beating against the windows, cold stone at his back, and fire, the flames licking around the edges of his consciousness until he wakes up alone in the back seat of his car, so weak he can barely move. On his drive back home, the moon seems to stare back at him, whispering in Aya's mind that he has failed his sister. Aya nearly crashes his car.

Aya is safe at work the next day (the simple pleasure of routine is his best friend), and he can almost forget that anything has even happened -- until Yohji, with his knack for upsetting the very foundations of Aya's existence, notices the mark Aya has hidden under the neck of his orange sweater and shrieks loud enough for all of Tokyo to hear. Aya later retreats to his room and locks the door with Yohji safely on the other side of it, but he can't lock out the voice inside him that tells him to open the window to let in the cool night air, even though he knows there's something waiting outside in the dark. This is his punishment, he later thinks, a fresh set of marks on his neck, and he feels himself wasting away and is powerless to even stop it. He had expected to be judged _after_ his own death, not before. He pretends he doesn't see Yohji's concern, Yohji’s wide eyes carefully hidden behind his sunglasses -- hiding them from Aya's sins-- and it hasn't escaped Aya's attention that it would have been Yohji who took Aya's life if he hadn't sold his soul to Kritiker, the night he was trapped in Yohji's web-like wire. His own death is behind him and before him, and he sees it from every possible angle.

When Aya finally gets his revenge and Takatori is slain, he takes his sister and, for the very first time, runs for his life.

Aya finds refuge in the daylight, in working long, hard hours doing manual labor, working with his hands and his strength that in no way reflects back to his previous life. He ignores Omi's e-mails, does not think about Yohji, and refuses any advances from both men and women, although deep inside Aya is an 18-year-old boy who never got to finish growing up, never got to fall in love, and is starving for affection.

Even when he's miles away, Yohji still won't leave him the fuck alone. He's in Aya's dreams, in the bathroom mirror before Aya's eyes blink away the sleep, and at night when he leaves the hospital after visiting his sister, his hand still warm from when he held hers wistfully in his own. All the while a voice is whispering in his head to give in just once to what he really wants, but it's want that makes him weak and unfocused, and Aya has made a new life for himself and his sister, one that doesn't include Yohji and death. Aya puts in long hours to forget, to work so hard that he does nothing more than stumble home, eating just enough to keep himself going, then promptly going to sleep, hoping exhaustion will rid himself of troubling dreams of golden hair and warm skin. But more often than not, he wakes with sticky fingers and sheets, the ache so fierce that he can barely stagger out of bed.

The hammer in his hand helps to pound away the frustration, the drywall to shut out the unsettling thoughts in daylight hours as it builds protective walls around him, but empty windows without glass call to him as the sun begins to set and the shadows creep in, and the feeling of being watched is stronger than ever. He's stayed out too late, and fear curls around the base of his spine as he puts his tools away and shrugs on his jacket. _Not here, not now,_ he thinks, his hand reaching up to finger the delicate gold cross that should be hanging from his neck -- that he somehow forgot to wear. Thinking himself safe this far from Tokyo, Aya no longer carries a weapon.

The sound of footsteps behind him comes as no surprise, but the golden hair as he turns is, and in the brief moment of confusion as he tries to figure out how Yohji could have possibly found him, Aya falls from grace. Honeyed hair becomes brown as sharp teeth sink in, and the illusion melts away to the foreboding sound of shrieking crows and wind, and the nothingness of dust.

He is cold when he wakes, unable to breathe until he claws his way through cool, damp earth and is reborn into moonlight shining through the trees. _"You are my greatest creation,"_ he hears, not with words spoken aloud, but with thoughts, and faster than he can think, he turns and tears his maker apart with his bare hands, feeding off the shock and betrayal of the dark creature as it breaks apart into nothingness. Aya still is Weiß at heart after all, though if he truly were, he should choose to end his own life. Even Weiß was never _this_ dangerous. He moves as if with wings, and once again at night he begins to hunt, feeling a thirst for life and death that only blood can quench, but even in that he comes up empty, empty, empty.

It's not hard to find Yohji in the vast crowds of Tokyo. He's the most beautiful creature in the club, all lean limbs and grace as he moves out on the dance floor, oozing sexuality from every angle. Aya watches him from the edge of the crowd and he feels the air thick between them, time and place inconsequential as Aya wraps mental fingers around him, feeling Yohji's breath against his skin and his heartbeat pounding in Aya's ears. Yohji sees him then -- the surprise in his green eyes is jarring -- and Aya moves back into the shadows, blending in with the absence of light. But light beckons as Yohji, all sunshine and warmth, alienates himself from the flashing lights and bright colors, and retreats into the darkness. He's no stranger to shadows, like Aya, but unlike Aya, he's not made of them. Aya is drawn like a moth to flame.

They don't speak. There is no stopping Aya now, not that there ever really was, and the need to be inside, to be touching every bit of that golden skin is too great to resist. Yohji wraps his long, muscular legs around Aya's waist as Aya fucks him against the wall, and there's nothing but the feel of him around Aya, squeezing, moving, his breath heavy in Aya's ear as Aya sinks into the tender skin of Yohji's neck, and then Yohji's heart is beating through Aya's veins as if Aya were really alive. This is no blood of a criminal or vagabond; this is vibrant life, and despite his profession of dealing out death, Yohji tastes pure, of sunlight on fields of wild grass, and warm sand kissed by the salt of the tide. _More,_ he wants, and takes, and it isn't until Yohji slumps against him, wet and sticky, his breath shallow and his eyes closed, that Aya feels fear for the first time in this form. He's never once before needed to stop.

He watches over Yohji, safe in his bed, or as safe as Yohji can be, and Aya feels the fiend that he is, dark upon light, and makes a vow before the sun rises. He melts away, chasing the retreating shadows of dawn.

Punishment is swift, and he's left with a cutting cross and an empty hospital bed.

He hunts once again, but this time it's personal, and it's not about blood -- but it is: the blood of family and the link to who and what he used to be. There is desperation in all that he does, and when he suddenly finds himself once again being the one hunted, it's a wake-up call he promised himself he would never hear again. "We'll help you, we know what you are," he's told, but he doesn't want to hear, wants the man to disappear with his paper airplanes and empty promises. But as stubborn as Aya is, Botan is as well, and they fight and they fuck, and before Botan goes up in a rush of flames, he tells Aya the truth: once again he must choose Weiß or death. And there Yohji is: snarling at him like a jealous lover. Aya is close, so close to the hunt, to feeling Yohji's wire around his neck, and he wonders briefly how much money Yohji would make to kill him. What is Aya's death worth?

There is familiarity now in evening hours, the smell of flowers and counting money, and secretly at night, he watches Yohji sleep, watches him change from the bright, vibrant being he was before, to something else, something gray and dull, like a chain-smoking doll. _I took something from you,_ Aya wants to say, _and I'm sorry,_ and perhaps he does whisper the words aloud, because one night Yohji wakes, and the look he gives cuts Aya to the quick. "He understood what I've become now," Aya whispers, but this isn't about paper airplanes, or fire, or anything else: it's about want and lust, and something much, much more.

This time as Aya loses himself in Yohji, he doesn't hide himself in shadows and pounding music. Moonlight spills through the window, and with curtains wide open, he takes his time, lingering over the soft skin, needing to taste him everywhere: the intimacy of the inside of Yohji's inner thigh, the round curve of his ass, his wrist, and his neck -- always back to his neck and the thick muscle, the beating pulse that gushes warm life into Aya's mouth, blending in with the taste of sweat and come as he takes, takes, takes. He leaves when the sky begins to turn pink at the edges, and no voices whisper to him this time as he goes. He hears only the deep rhythm of sleepy breaths that only moments before warmed his skin.

He dreams of flowers growing in the sun, roots reaching down into the dirt -- an exchange of water and air, with cool earth in between.

Aya knows Yohji's decision before he arrives, his footsteps neither hesitant nor unsure, but confident and quick. The beat of his heart slows, and there's a moment of dull panic when Aya thinks Yohji's waited too long, that he's slipping away to a place where Aya can never go, but there are sudden teeth in his skin and the pull of his soul, and Aya almost laughs at the greed in Yohji's veins.

There is no cold earth for Yohji. There are warm sheets and a warm body next to his -- warm with Yohji’s own life that’s fading away with every second that his heart ceases to beat and his chest refuses to rise.

And then, safe in Aya's arms, Yohji dies. Then he opens new eyes.  
   



End file.
